Kiss me like there’s no tomorrow, you commanded in whispers, over your tangled sheet.
I sat on the edge of your bed and ran my fingers on your temple, down to your three-day-old beard. You have always been beautiful. To that fact, I submit myself.
I brushed the blanket out of your chest and placed my palm on your beating heart. “You’re getting married next week,” I breathed. It’s a statement and you know it.
“Yes,” you answered. You have hesitations and it is reeking.
“Not to me,” I replied. It’s a fact, without bitterness in it.
You reached for a lock of my hair and looked at me. One by one you unbuttoned my blouse. I let the heat of your breath burn my spine.
“Do you want me to leave her?” you asked. It’s a plea to make everything stand still.
“Oh no no,” I rebutted. It’s a command and it’s a selfish one. I slid my hand at the small of your back and drew circles.
“But I don’t want us to end,” you argued as you pinned me down the bed and tried to love me.
“We won’t end,” I guaranteed as your tongue traced the length of my neck.
I closed my eyes and exhaled your name.
You cupped my breasts and parted my thighs with your knees. You looked deep into my eyes, and as my head banged against the headboard, you made promises I did not believe.
You breathed, unevenly, as you thrust and pounded to and fro. You buried my face on your pillows and reveled in my every moan and scratch and prayer. I made you feel immortal.
You let the night love the parts of our selves that we cannot, and you made the walls collapsed in sheer jealousy
because you knew,
that once we’re over
I will write a poem
out of these bruises.